


When You Least Expect It

by Canon_Is_Relative



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-26
Updated: 2011-11-26
Packaged: 2017-10-26 13:52:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/283964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canon_Is_Relative/pseuds/Canon_Is_Relative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is sick, and Lestrade takes him home to take care of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When You Least Expect It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [basaltgrrl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/basaltgrrl/gifts).



> Beta'd by ImpishTubist, who also let me borrow "Sunshine" <3
> 
> This is written for and humbly dedicated to basaltgrrl as a thank-you* for the amazing [John, Lestrade and a certain pool table](http://john-lestrade.livejournal.com/20657.html) art she did for my [Flirting Over Evidence series.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/270396/chapters/426742) This operates in that 'verse but stands on its own.
> 
> *This is by no means intended to serve dual purpose as a bribe for more John/Lestrade fan art. Nope, not at all.

John slumped further down in his chair, his head about to explode, while Sherlock and Lestrade raged at each other.

"Thanks to _you,_ to your _meddling_ and your _blundering,_ it could be _weeks_ before I track him down again!"

"What about _breaking and entering_ do you not understand, Sherlock? You are not above the law!"

"I was hired to do a job in which lives are at stake--yes, John, _actual, human lives_ ," Sherlock added, rounding on John. "And that job would be a great deal simpler if not for utter _ineptitude_ with which I am surrounded. Lestrade's interference wouldn't have mattered, I'd have had him if _you_ hadn't chosen the most inopportune moment imaginable to cough."

"And that's another thing," Lestrade growled, and now they were glaring at each other quite literally over John's head. "Where the _hell_ do you get off, dragging John along with you when he's ill? Are you _trying_ to get him killed?"

"All right, girls," John held up his hands, looking wearily between them. "That's enough. Just try and remember that no one got hurt."

Wrong thing to say--Lestrade started shouting about how _John had been shot at_ and Sherlock snarled that _He'd gotten away which was as good as another victim in the morgue._

Sherlock closed in on Lestrade. "I _need_ your support on this, now that you've gone and trampled all over it."

Lestrade's hand was braced on John's shoulder and John felt him go stiff, fingers digging sharply into him. He knew without looking that Greg was biting down hard on his back teeth and taking deep, steadying breaths through his nose, gathering up his patience from God-knew-where to deal rationally with Sherlock.

"Coordinate with Donovan," he said at last. "Dimmock's pulled her in on this one, she has access to the files. That's all I'm giving you."

Sherlock left without a word. Lestrade crossed to his office door to close and lock it behind him. John concentrated on holding in the wet, hacking cough that had so recently brought a madman down upon their heads.

"You were a soldier," Greg said suddenly, and John looked up. He was not looking at John, still facing the door with his hands in his pockets, studying his shoes. John felt his shoulders stiffen, hackles rising at _those words_ in _that tone._ "But now you're a civilian. And you can not do things like this."

All the things John could think of to say had no doubt already occurred to Greg. _You let Sherlock. Is this just because of us?_ even, _I'm sorry_ …they all fell flat to John's inner ear. He coughed weakly.

"Oh, hell," Greg muttered, turning and crossing to kneel beside his chair. John glanced around to see if anyone outside Greg's fishbowl of an office was watching them, but it was late at night and no one was there. Greg took his hand and felt his forehead, sitting back on his heels to look up into John's eyes. Then he stood and offered John his hand. "You're burning up, sunshine. C'mon, back to mine."

John took his hand and didn't let go, even after he'd gained his feet. He looked at Greg for a long moment, his misery swept away by the wave of absolute joy--to be with him, to love him, to be loved (he was pretty sure) by him--that broke over him.

"Right, then," his voice sounded thin and dry, nearly drowned out by the wild beating of his heart, his vision swimming at the edges. "M'all yours, let's go."

\---

John made him slow down. Made him remember how to do things. How to smile. Laugh. Enjoy sunsets and nice weather and morning coffee and birthdays and novels. He liked that. He didn't like that the slowing down sometimes--ok, often--came about because of things like this. But at least, he reminded himself, this time it was just a fever and chills, nothing that would put him in the hospital. Well. Hadn't, anyway. What the _hell_ had Sherlock been thinking, dragging a sick man, even one with John's skills and reflexes, along with him on a stakeout. The detective just didn't _think._ He'd grown accustomed to having John along with him on his little adventures, therefore John _would_ accompany him, come hell or high water or a hacking cough. It made Lestrade's own chest ache.

John shifted beside him, waking slowly. Lestrade forcibly relaxed the arm he had around his shoulders and put aside the book he'd been pretending to read. A sheen of sweat glazed John's forehead and his eyes were open but pinched around the edges. In pain, then. Lestrade felt a stab of guilt--he should have insisted on the bed, it would have been more comfortable for him than the sofa.

He pressed his lips to John's forehead and murmured, "How're you feeling, sunshine?"

John rolled his head to hide from the light in Lestrade's shoulder and groaned softly. Lestrade reached down and found his hand, squeezing it gently. John wound their fingers together, squeezing back.

"Can I get you anything?" John still hadn't spoken, seemed to be drifting in and out, radiating heat but beginning to shiver violently. "Cup of tea?"

"Stopped wearing that ring," John mumbled.

"Hey?" Lestrade ducked his head, bringing his ear closer to John's mouth. "What's that, love?"

John shivered and rubbed his thumb over Lestrade's ring finger. He spoke again, his voice sounding stronger. "You're not wearing that ring anymore."

"Oh. Well." He'd reached for the ring on Monday, still dripping from his shower, and found himself frowning down at it. The ring had meant something to him, once. Meant _someone._ A reminder of something too precious to let go of but too painful to think on for long. And as much as it was that, it was a sham; a defence screen to hide behind, to deflect the question that invariably arose that he was sick of answering. A disguise. A costume. _Don't look at me, I'm just the same as everybody else._ Resting in his palm, the ring had felt light. Felt…unnecessary. He'd put it away carefully in a drawer before leaving for work. "Well. I've got you now, haven't I?"

Lestrade pulled John closer and kissed his forehead again--God, he could kiss John all day and not get bored with it; God he was in real trouble--and only then, as John chuckled softly and squeezed his hand tighter, did Lestrade hear how the words might have sounded. No, _had_ sounded. _Oh, Christ._

"That is--I mean--I mean I _didn't_ mean…that I expect…that…from you…"

John pushed himself up to look into Greg's eyes, his own shining with fever and amusement and something bright and brilliant that Greg didn't want to name because naming it would be terrifying. Absolutely bloody _terrifying_.

"Oh, don't worry," John murmured at last, chapped lips stretching into a wide grin, knuckles grazing down Lestrade's jaw. "That's coming."


End file.
